


Dawn Maids

by mopsi



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mopsi/pseuds/mopsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Origin story for the Twilight Girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Maids

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry in the shsl secret santa project on tumblr. You can view the gift here: http://shslsecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/71147025477/dawn-maids
> 
> This work is written from the point of view of Mahiru Koizumi, shsl photographer.
> 
> Marked ‘teen and up’ for that one Mikan’s unfortunate tendency.

Dull day. Perfect for photography, I emotionlessly analyze. The drive was long. Academy is far from civilization; do all these grounds belong to the school? Unsurprisingly, my father is not here with me today, on my first school day. Instead he paid a few bucks to get his drinking friend, a perverted big guy I nicknamed Sausage, to drive me to school and help me carry my stuff in. I’m a little astounded he said yes, that slacker. I believe Father’s friends fear me to some amount; I’m always yelling at them like a cranky granny.

And making them stewpot like a granny. Having no worries about shopping and cooking at the intern is a relief, but I’ll probably still miss it a little bit. At least I don’t have to share a dorm but get a room of my own. Super high school level life sure is luxurious. Getting to be by myself is… probably the best for me.

*

The walls of Hope’s Peak Academy close around us. Corridors swarm with first-years; I carry two suitcases and my camera bag as Sausage pulls a luggage trolley piled with cardboard boxes behind him.

We arrive at the elevators. There seems to be a scene in the staircase, and the crowd blocks the way to the elevator doors. A circle of people has gathered around something, pointing, laughing and chattering. “Excuse…” I begin, but they are obsessed with something. I clear my throat and yell: “What’s the big deal? If you have a minute, kindly step off! What sort of manners do you have making noise and blocking entries like that?”

They step aside enough for me to see. I gasp. There’s a young woman laying down in the staircase, dark hair a mess around her face, breathing heavily and her cheeks soaking in tears. She is restrained in a star position, each leg bound with luggage. Her head points down stairs; her unmentionables are on clear display.

“Which one of you is responsible?” I continue to scold, shocked. “It’s the first day of school, no less!”

The group starts to disperse. I go to help the girl right away. She pulls at her clothing nervously to look decent, while sobbing and stuttering apologies in one continuous flow. I try to comfort her, when someone bursts: “Ahahaha! You know what makes it twice as funny? She managed to get in this state all by herself.”

I turn to glare at the speaker. The bullied girl swallows, apologies once again assuring me this “happens at times” and it was indeed herself. “Thank you for your help. Thank you very much. Oh, I hope I’m not apologizing too much? My name is Mikan Tsumiki. Pleased to meet you.”

She is covered in bruises and worse, old and new, and she has bandages too. They thankfully look well taken care of.

“Hello brainwreck, what entitles you to the super high school level high school life?” All of the other bystanders have scattered. There is only this one left in the staircase. She is a very petite, childlike girl, and I curse myphotographicbrain for being distracted at the beauty of the sight. She stands a few stairs above, light falls from behind her shoulders and leaves the corridor hazy. She wears traditional Japanese clothing, brightly colored and of high quality. Her posture is elegant. All this comes to me instantly. You could say… in a flash.

“Introduce yourself first,” I demand, hiding my infatuation but not my annoyance.

Her name is Hiyoko Saionji.

There they are. First aquaintances of my high school life, and ones I can never possibly forget.

*

I am not sure how we made friends with Ibuki Mioda. The flashy, charismatic super high school level music club member. She is popular, but somehow grouped with us at lunch breaks. She was clueless, most times, but paid it back in intuition. We are all, I feel, crazy in the head.

How selfish is a friendship? I feel like ours was there to fill a hole in our lives. I always wanted to be a mother. But, frankly, I don’t think I can easily find a man to meet my expectations. Mikan says expectations vary by age, too, so I guess I have hope. Well, I feel much better while keeping Hiyoko from pulling Mikan’s hair off from the roots. If she didn’t keep trying, though, for the poor nurse, our friendship could be just a distant dream.

For some reason we often gather in my room. We sit on the bed that is way too big for just one person and compared to the one back home swallows me up. Hiyoko is surprised by that I can sew and have an interest in garbs. I try to teach her to knot her obi by herself, but she just messes it up again. We do makeovers and loan each others’ clothes. Ibuki is great with hair, it turns out. We do a makeshift photo studio in a corner of my room sometimes. It takes up a lot of room, so we have to take it down every time.

When we say goodnight and separate, I feel like nothing can come between us.

I feel however dark or light, we will never fall to despair.

I feel it when Hiyoko comes back from a break she spent at home, falls down on her knees in my room and stares into the void, saying nothing. She is like a crab in a shell. We can only sit around her by no means touching her, until she reverts to a devilish rage, starts crying like a brat or pulls at Mikan’s hair.

I feel it when Mikan has a bad day and falls inexlicaply into a sexually humbling position in class, Hiyoko makes a nasty remark, I scold Hiyoko, and Ibuki shrugs it off us all.

I also feel it when Ibuki shows us her lyrics or plays her secret tapes for us, the ones that are supposed to skyrocket her into fame. The words are stupendously unsettling, she screams them in the microphone and I don’t know what is up with the chords, but they set up an atmosphere any of us others would rather not experience. She makes the presentation in her old refreshing and energetic way, a wide smile on her face and hopping up and down. If we had the heart to complain, we wouldn’t go through with it.

I feel it when I come back from a school club, where my nerves were torn apart by other members, but I can’t show defeat to them, but return to my room and fall down on my bed, into their welcoming arms. I dive head first into pillow and cry hot tears, and they pile on top of me their arms all around me.

They will never let go of me.


End file.
